


“Too mighty for the Daily mind”

by Its_not_tentacle_porn_shut_up_Joscelin



Series: “Forever is composed of Nows” [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Episode: s07e12 Victory and Death, Gen, Post Clone Wars, Sad, Vader’s life is sad and depressing, Vignette, about all the things Vader doesn’t remember but can’t quite forget, ahsoka tano’s lightsaber, fuck you Dave Filoni for making me feel things, short fic, so here’s a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24014977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Its_not_tentacle_porn_shut_up_Joscelin/pseuds/Its_not_tentacle_porn_shut_up_Joscelin
Summary: There is a room on Mustafar, deep in the bowels of the lone, black castle that sits there, where a lightsaber lives. Many other things have found their home in this room as well, but the lightsaber... the lightsaber was the first.A short reflection inspired by the final scene of The Clone Wars
Series: “Forever is composed of Nows” [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1786501
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58





	“Too mighty for the Daily mind”

**Author's Note:**

> May the Fourth be with you! I know it’s been forever since I posted something Star Wars, and I swear I’m gonna update Gay Anakin eventually *whistles innocently like I have started three other WIPs since then* 
> 
> I just now got to watch the final episode of clones wars and folks, I fucking bawled at the end. It’s over, and I’m sad, so now y’all get to be sad with me. 
> 
> The title of this fic comes from Emily Dickinson’s poem “I never hear that one is dead”

There is a room on Mustafar, deep in the bowels of the lone, black castle that sits there, where a lightsaber lives. Many other things have found their home in this room as well, but the lightsaber... the lightsaber was the first. 

It still bears the discoloring caused by the months (or was it years?) it sat half buried in the snow. Its casing ever so faintly cracked, and despite the (hundreds of) times the owner of the castle, the keeper of that room, had held it in his hands, had calculated just how much durasteel would be needed to repair that once smooth and silver casing — cracked and discolored it would always remain (it was not his to fix, even if he could not always remember why). Fingers of leather covered durasteel would trace the cracks, expertly hold the smooth and minimalistic lines of the hilt, and then ever so hesitatingly rest on the switch which would ignite a blade of blue plasma as clean and perfect as the day it was made. The switch was never flipped (he did not remember or know the first time he’d ignited that blade. Nor the second, nor even the tenth. He could not forget the last), and the kyber which sang ever so softly at its heart was never touched, and never seen. 

The lightsaber was always the last of the things in that room, that small room of memories so long forgotten they couldn’t even be called memories anymore (he had cut them from his mind with the dull blades known as grief and resentment), to be held and worried over. The first was pendant, worn smooth by time and sand (and worried fingers hoping for luck) the symbols that had once been carved so neatly into it’s surface were all but invisible (he knew them anyways. Knew them despite having found it long abandoned in the hands of the body of someone he had never known. Knew their meanings and their stories despite no longer being able to speak their names). It was made of a japor snippet on a half disintegrated length of jerba cord, meant to be worn tucked away and close to the heart, made by calloused hands in stolen hours (he did not know these things now. He did not know where he had learned them. He could not forget them). 

And, like a ritual of mourning (was it mourning, if he could not remember what was lost?) the next object held, not-remembered and not-forgotten, was the gold and jeweled hair pin (it came from Naboo, he couldn’t tell you why). Then the weathered poster that showed a young boy in the cockpit of a podracer (the boy on the poster was dark skinned and dark haired, this felt wrong somehow, somehow he knew the boy was meant to be desert tan and sun bleached blonde, he did not know the boy’s name). After the poster was a strip of fabric, rich silk dyed by hand on a distant moon a fugitive had once hidden on — the origin didn’t matter, but the ochre, sapphire, and white that twined together on it did (he did not know why such colors mattered. He did not know why he saw shapes like hawk’s eyes, cogs, and oh so specific and intricate lines jumping from the fabric the longer he stared at it. Did not know why a voice he couldn’t remember but knew belonged to a thousand people echoed just out of reach when they did). A dozen other things, baubles and weapons and mechanical parts and pictures of things they weren’t, lived in this room and each had their place in the ritual. Their order of considerations before they were once again forgotten. 

Vader could never remember why he kept the room so secret, locked away deep in his stronghold (Anakin could never forget). 


End file.
